


Gift That Keeps Giving

by Lexie



Category: Iron Man (2008)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-18
Updated: 2008-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/pseuds/Lexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas, and whether or not they realize it, Tony Stark and Jim Rhodes are setting themselves on their own paths. Yuletide 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift That Keeps Giving

**Author's Note:**

> This integrates some aspects of the movie canon with comics canon--specifically, _The Crew_.

"Christmas music," Tony Stark announces idly, "was invented by an evil genius." The office is sterile, military neat, and lacking in any and all Christmas music.

"Remind me what you're doing in my office," Jim Rhodes says mildly, glancing at him from behind his computer.

Tony ignores him, comfortably ensconced in the chair in front of Rhodey's desk. "I was just assaulted in the lobby as I left." He reaches over and grabs a handful out of Rhodey's bag of chips before he can he stopped; Rhodey shoots him an exasperated look. "You'd think when you own your own building, you could avoid these things."

"Hey, Scrooge," says Rhodey, frowning. "Get your _own_ lunch."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Not wherever you got _yours_." Tony leans back in his chair; it creaks. "The chips are totally oily; no good. You know who has great chips?"

Rhodey sighs sharply. "You're going to say the Stark Industries cafeteria, and then you're going to tell me I should work with you and I'm gonna say no, again, and then you're gonna get _out_ of my _office_."

"You're very testy today. Has anyone told you that yet? You forgot the part where I tell you that SI has way better office chairs." He bounces in this one, to illustrate his point. "Terrible lumbar support--"

"_No_, I'm _not_ gonna resign my commission and go to work for your company." Rhodey looks about ready to flick a chip at him. "Would you get out of here? I got work to do, and they're not exactly fans of yours around here; not since you quit the defense contract business."

"I could always get you a new chair for Christmas," Tony muses.

Rhodey puts down his sandwich. "You're _really_ not gonna leave til I give you an idea?"

"That's the general plan," Tony confirms. "What, I can't get into the Christmas spirit? Come on. Pepper always gets herself something nice from me; what's she getting you this year? She won't leave me alone; I'm just passing the buck here."

Rhodey throws up his hands then puts them on the back of his head, fingers laced; a clear sign that Tony is getting to him. "Uhh, the new _Gears of War_ game."

"Is that the one with the-- Nice," Tony says approvingly. "_Way_ at the bottom of my budget, of course, so far down it's subterranean, but--"

"Rhodes!" barks a voice from the hall, and Rhodey sits bolt upright.

"Do I detect the dulcet tones of General Michaels?" asks Tony. He stares at the ceiling nostalgically. "Wow. _That_ brings back memories."

"Yeah." Rhodes stands, straightening his tie and grabbing a stack of papers off the desk. "Listen, you can--"

Tony waves him on, casual and easy. "I'll show myself out."

"Rhodes!" the voice bellows again, and with a weary nod to Tony, Rhodey's out the door.

Tony glances around the empty office, perfectly at home, and rises, scooping up his jacket. He raps the desk lightly with his knuckles -- and then he frowns and leans around to look at the laptop screen. "Oh, for--" He rolls his eyes; Rhodey has left the computer on, several applications and databases open and running. "This is why the Air Force shouldn't have nice things," Tony mutters, and he comes around the desk, leaning over the computer.

He pauses with his finger hovering over the 'standby' button. The top window onscreen is the answer page for a Google search, featuring contact information for Jeannie Rhodes after Jeannie Rhodes. One is a pediatrician in Hammond, Illinois; there is another Dr. Jeannie Rhodes in Washington state, a photographer with her own business in Vancouver, a college student in Louisiana with a Facebook account.

Tony glances at the door, then back at the laptop; his brief moment of indecision settled, he clicks the 'back' button on the browser (Internet Explorer; it's criminal how long it's been since it has been updated) and types a 'j' into the search box. The recently searched terms that appear in the drop-down box are: jeanette rhodes, jeanette rhodes new york, jeanette whitney rhodes, jeannie rhodes.

He looks at the screen for a long moment, his face grave.

(_"Hey," calls Tony, lounging lazily across a bench. He sits up and flags down Jim Rhodes as he crosses the crush of students heading back and forth across the quad. "Rho-day! How was the summer?"_

_Rhodey's carrying a backpack and a box that's practically bigger than he is; he lost the flat top and a little bit of weight in his face. Tony's not the most observant guy on campus, but he can see that much. "My sister hustled my parents for their life savings, my mom had a heart attack a couple weeks later, and Jeannie ran off to New York and blew every last cent of the money." Rhodey sets the box down with a thud. "How was your _summer?"__

_"--Dull, by comparison," Tony says, wide-eyed, before he can stop himself, and there's a heart-stopping moment -- and then Rhodey smiles, tenuous and barely there.)_

Tony shakes his head; he clicks 'back' again, bringing the page to where it was, and puts the computer on standby. The screen goes black and he stands there a moment longer, hunched over the computer; then he drums his fingers on the desk and abruptly straightens up, reaching into an inner jacket pocket for his cell phone.

As he crosses the office floor and steps out into the base corridor, Tony says, "Pepper, I need you to get me the number for Ling McPherson in New York."

* * *

  


"You're around an awful lot, for a superhero," says Rhodes, setting the heavy hydraulic wrench on the workshop's imaging table and folding his arms. "I was expecting to return this to Jarvis."

"The superhero business is apparently slow at Christmastime. Who knew?" Tony says from behind him, flicking through channels on the plasma screen TV. "I guess even Doctor Doom's got to do Christmas with the family, right?"

"I don't know if they celebrate Christmas in Latveria, and there's no _way_ that guy's got family."

"With those chiseled good looks?" says Tony, ignoring Rhodey's groan and settling on what looks like _The Great Escape_ and setting the remote down. "Of course he does. He's got to have girls all over him."

"I don't even want to _think_ about that."

"Yeah, well," says Tony, and he tosses a folder over Rhodey's shoulder as he passes, drink in hand. "I live to serve. Merry Christmas."

Rhodey looks down at the folder on the table, then up at Tony. He sighs sharply. "You're early, and if this is the deed to a car again, I'm not--"

"Not a car." Tony leans on the opposite side of the table. "Traditionally, you give the _keys_, not the deed." He gestures with his glass. "It's more, _dramatic_ that way? I'm pretty sure there are giant bows involved." He takes a drink. "Anyway, I'm so punctual I'm two days early. Sue me."

Shooting Tony another look, Rhodey carefully picks up the thick manila folder.

"Come on." Tony waves him on, impatient. "I know it's hard to believe, but I _haven't_ actually invented an explosive that thin yet. Open up, sugarbutt."

Rhodey watches him for another second or two, looking ready to shake his head, and then he opens the front cover. His expression starts out blank and only becomes more so.

Finally, he looks up and says, flatly, "You had a private investigator follow my sister."

Tony holds up a finger. "Correction: I had a private investigator _find_ your sister." He lowers his hand. "_Then_ follow her." He leans across the table and tries to point at the folder. "She's in New York--"

Rhodey hits his hand away. "I can read, man!" Tony withdraws, putting his free hand up in mock-surrender; he's watching Rhodey's reaction with his usual insouciance, but there's a hint of wariness in his sharp face. Rhodey flips through several more documents and whistles low, shaking his head. "Damn. All you're missing is her high school diploma and her dental records."

"What can I say." Tony spreads his hands magnanimously, the ice in his glass clinking. "I'm a thorough kind of guy, and McPherson &amp; Cabe are _very_ good at what they do."

Rhodes breathes sharply through his teeth, his hand resting on the folder. "Tony, this is..."

He pauses with the glass of scotch just below his mouth. "Resourceful? Generous? Very kind?"

"A total invasion of privacy," he says, wryly. "And _seriously_ creepy."

"Yeah, yeah. You always say that," Tony says, startling a half-smile -- the kind that is almost a laugh -- out of Rhodey. Tony sets his scotch on the table. "The plane's on the runway at Landmark," he says.

Rhodey's head rises sharply.

"All it needs is a passenger."

"You want me to take the company plane," says Rhodey.

"Yes."

"Which you're treating like it's your personal property."

"It's -- my company." Tony tilts his head and squints at him. " '_Stark_, Industries' -- Did someone forget to cc you on that e-mail?"

"It's the company's property," Rhodey says, in the tone of a man who has been fighting a losing battle for years.

"And it's _my_ company, ergo the property of my property. So, there you go. Offer still stands."

"It's the first night in weeks that I haven't had to work late, I've got a meeting with two major-generals at ten tomorrow morning, and you want me to fly to New York to find Jeanette, who I haven't talked to since she broke my mother's heart and we both told each other to drop dead."

Tony seems to consider it, and then he says, "Yep." Rhodey shoots him a look. "It's a fast plane, Rhodey. You've got the _exact address_," he leans over and taps the folder. Tony's eyes are sober, despite the scotch; he leans back on his stool. "Hogan's outside with the Rolls, and there's a car waiting in New York."

In the background, Dummy burbles quietly to itself, putting the finishing touches on a coat of red touch-up paint on Iron Man's left gauntlet. Steve McQueen is riding circles around Nazis on a motorcycle on the plasma screen, in mute. The refrigerator hums; the faucet drips; Rhodey's watch ticks.

Tony is shooting Rhodey one of those Stark looks; one of those 'I've laid all of my cards on the table; what're you gonna do now?' challenges, with one slightly raised eyebrow.

Rhodey says, "If you think I'm taking one of _your_ cars into a neighborhood called Little Mogadishu at three o'clock in the morning, you're out of your damn mind." He stands up and tucks the folder under his arm, and Tony grins fit to beat the goddamn band.

* * *

  
_2:04 A.M._

No matter how many times Pepper wishes it would, time doesn't automatically roll back several hours. She snaps her phone (and those glaring numbers) shut; presses the heel of her hand to her eye and continues down the stairs, fingers adjusting her Bluetooth headset and then running along the banister.

"Yes, hi, this is Pepper," she says to the voice that picks up on the other end of the call. "Did you guys make it to New York okay?" She is an old hand on these stairs, but that doesn't make their smooth marble any easier to navigate in three-inch Christian Louboutins. "That's good. Listen, did Colonel Rhodes leave the plane?" She pauses on the last step, looking through the glass into the workshop.

Tony sits perched on a stool, mostly-armored; the gold faceplate flipped up and both gauntlets removed. He looks just as battered as he did when he first arrived, the armor dirty and dented like somebody took a couple of passes at it with a steamroller. He's leaning over the table, turning a pair of tweezers on his hand, which -- Pepper can see even from here -- is covered in blood. Beside his hand is a crystal decanter and a half-full glass.

Pepper's mouth tightens.

Five minutes later, Pepper keys in the code and steps into the workshop. She is immediately struck by a solid wave of hair-raising guitar riffs; Tony and his fondness for progressive rock and heavy metal. She steps to the sound system and cranks down the music, and he glances at her.

"That's going to bruise," says Pepper. It's not the smartest first remark she's ever made upon seeing a new one of Tony's injuries, but it's what comes to mind.

"Yeah, well," says Tony, all too glib around a fat lip. "It happens. Direct all complaints to the Crimson Dynamo, master of facial reconstruction."

Pepper can't contain her cringe -- how _afraid_ she is for him, running around with a team of superhumans who can take so much more punishment than he can -- but it's just for a moment; she squares her shoulders and sets her mouth determinedly, and carries on. "Some day, you'll have to tell me how it _happens_ while you're wearing a full helmet and facemask." She takes off her headset and places it on the opposite end of the table.

"It's a talent," he tells her, bloody tweezers squeezed between his good palm and the glass as he takes a drink of what is undoubtedly scotch or brandy. The ice rattles in the glass; his hand isn't steady.

Pepper makes her decision in an instant, even if it isn't much of a decision. She steps in. "Give me those," she orders.

"I like an authoritative woman." Tony passes her the tweezers.

She holds out her hand, and after a second, he gives her his injured hand, too; she pulls up a stool, dunks the tweezers in the glass of alcohol and pours the rest over his palm before he can so much as blink a protest, and bends over his hand. "The driver called, from New York," she says, mouth set tight as she surveys the shards of (red) gold-titanium alloy embedded in his palm. "Rhodey never hooked up with him."

"I didn't think he would," Tony says, absently. "Six-foot-five and heavily muscled isn't Rhodey's usual type."

Pepper yanks a shard of the shredded gauntlet out of his hand. Tony's drawn-out yelp is probably more theatrical than it needs to be, but the spirit of it is obviously genuine. "I'm serious," she says, briefly glancing up at his face. "The driver waited for two hours; the plane got in and the crew says that Rhodey stepped off, but Bill never saw anyone come through the airport who looked remotely like Rhodey's description."

"He's AWOL, huh?" says Tony, glancing at her.

"Apparently." She pulls a medium-sized piece and steels herself against the low sound that Tony makes through clenched teeth. It's pretty easy, considering. "He's somewhere in New York, at least. I told the driver to go home. I gave Jim's cell a try, but he's not picking up."

"James is a big boy," Tony says lightly. "He'll be fine." Pepper none-too-gently yanks another shard of gauntlet out of his skin. "_Ow!_" He shoots her a betrayed look. "You're worse than Maya!"

"If you'd like, I can call Dr. Hansen to do this," Pepper says, flinty, and after a second, Tony shakes his head.

He says, dry, "You know, it's funny, Potts, but I get the feeling she's not the kind of girl who'd appreciate being woken up at one in the morning."

"Two-fifteen in the morning," Pepper corrects, "and I am totally getting a raise for this." Tony nods, genially enough, and drags the heavy decanter across the table with his free hand. He pours a second sloppy, generous helping of 20-year-old scotch from the decanter.

Pepper rubs her nose with her forearm to avoid smearing Tony's blood across her face, and exhales.

* * *

  
Tony blinks, tilts his head, and squints. "Huh." He sits up straighter at his desk, silhouetted against the wide picture window behind him. The sky is dark, the city's lights bright, with scattered red and green (and, most prominent of all, the spot-lit Stark Industries logo on the next building).

"Look at that," Tony says. "We match. Did you plan this?"

"Yeah," says Jim Rhodes, stepping through the office door. He's in civvies -- wrinkled jeans and a leather jacket -- with one hell of a black eye. He looks haggard; he looks like a guy who took a twelve-hour round trip flight, combed the South Bronx for a needle in a very noisy haystack, and had a couple of meetings with some cranky major-generals, all on a 45-minute nap and after getting punched somewhere in the mix. "I told the guy to hit me so hard I looked like Tony Stark." He rolls his eyes -- his eye -- and drops into the chair in front of the desk. "Come on."

"You're missing several key attributes," Tony says, loosening his tie. "Just so you know."

"Yeah, yeah." Rhodey settles into the chair, arms on the armrests and one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He points at Tony. "Missing them and and _happy_ about that." He takes a second glance at Tony. "Nice hand, by the way. Christmas truce didn't hold?"

Tony examines his bandaged hand, back to front. "Nah." He leans back in his chair. "You know supervillains; they never _can_ stick to those unwritten agreements."

Rhodes smiles faintly, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing the Avengers couldn't handle?"

He scoffs. "Of course not. A little apocalyptic superpowered tag team before breakfast never hurt anybody."

"Besides your face."

"Okay, _that_ was in the interest of a _really_ good headbutt."

Rhodes laughs, shaking his head. "Nice." His smile fades down. "Listen -- you got a copy of that file you gave me?" He rests a hand on the back of his neck.

"Yeah." Off the incredulous look that Rhodey immediately shoots him: "What, was I supposed to say no? _Yes_, I have a copy, but I haven't read it. I swear. It's locked up."

"I'm gonna need to take that off your hands."

"If you insist." Tony heaves himself up, comes around the desk, and claps Rhodey on the shoulder as he passes. As he opens the office door, there is a blast of Christmas muzak -- what sounds like "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" with a walking blues line -- from outside; Rhodey doesn't have to be watching to know that Tony grimaces, and then bravely wades into the fray. "Oh, Mrs. Arbogast!" he sings out, and Rhodey presses his fingers to the un-bruised side of his face and shakes his head, just a little.

When Tony comes back a minute later, he has a candy cane in his teeth and a folder under his arm, and he kicks the door shut and goes straight for the brandy that he keeps on the side table. "Do you know what's going on out there?" he asks, only it comes out like, 'Oo oo oh ah oo-ee ah ow air?'

"Yeah," says Rhodey, well-versed in translating Tony-speak. "The secretaries are throwing a Christmas party."

"Wow," Tony mouths, setting the candy cane on the table. "I forget sometimes that the rest of the secretary pool is blonde and has _incredible_ legs."

"And Mrs. Arbogast can run secretary circles around the rest of 'em," Rhodey points out reasonably. He accepts the glass of brandy that Tony hands him in passing. He concedes: "The little Santa hats, those're a nice touch, though."

"Rhodey, I'm surprised by you," Tony says, propping his feet up on his desk. He takes a sip of his drink. "The correct term these days is actually 'administrative assistant.' "

Rhodey snorts. "Uh huh." He holds out his hand, and Tony passes the folder across the desk. Rhodey holds it for a long moment, staring down at it; absently tucking the edges of several sheets of paper back inside the file.

"I'd burn it," Tony's voice says.

Rhodey glances up, startled. "--What?"

Tony's watching him, arm slung across the back of his chair. "The way you're looking at it. You -- _do_ want to burn it, right?"

"I'm considering it," he says, a little flat.

 

Tony spreads his hands wide. "I'm just saying, if I were you, I'd do it."

"You don't even know _why_."

"That's just the kind of guy I am." Tony pats down his jacket and after a second or two, comes up with a lighter, which he flicks on and offers to Rhodey. "You wanna?"

The tiny flame flickers between them, the two men watching each other, and then Rhodey finally shakes his head. "Nah," he says, and he tucks it under his jacket, close to his heart. "I lost the other one along the way; might as well hold onto this."

"Oh yeah?" Tony says conversationally, over the rim of his glass.

"Yeah. Jeanette, she, uh." He rests his glass on the armrest; really _thinks_ before he says anything else. "She calls herself 'Star' now."

"_Trés_ fairy tale," says Tony; it's delivered lightly, but he swings his feet down onto the floor and rests his elbows on the desk, leaning forward. There's more apprehension in the move than is typical for Tony Stark; a deeper caution that settled into his bones and didn't let go, after Afghanistan. Rhodey's still not always sure whether that's a good thing or not; he still wishes that caution would kick in more often while Tony's in the suit, about to do something life-threatening and really _stupid_.

Rhodes half-laughs into his hand, the curve of his mouth not a positive development. "No. She's living with a bunch of low-lifes in the South Bronx. Turns out the neighborhood's named after Mogadishu for a reason."

Tony laces his fingers and rests his chin on them, for all intents and purposes listening closely. His eyes never leave Rhodey. "Totally lawless and overrun with various charming groups trying to take control?"

"Completely. I couldn't even get a cab driver to take me all the way in. And the people she's staying with--" Rhodey shakes his head, vehement.

"Bad news, I take it."

"A couple of 'em were strung out, somebody was dealing out the back, at least one of the other girls was a hooker-- You should've _seen_ the place." His hand holds the armrest tight. "It's a condemned house; they're staying til the wrecking crews show. Floor's caving in, there's rats, the whole place smells like a dump. Somewhere, my mother's rolling in her damn grave."

"Jesus," says Tony, and it's low but heartfelt. "You get her out of there?"

"_No_," says Rhodey, and his voice has reached a pitch that it only hits when he's mad as hell. "She said she was doing _great_ and she didn't want anything to do with me; I don't know what exactly she's 'doing great' _at_," he stands in one sharp move; sets his glass down on the desk hard enough that it'd crack if it was any less sturdy, "but in _that_ crowd, it can't be legit."

Tony frowns, looking up at him. "What do you think?"

"I think she's still conning, and that's the _best_ case scenario." Despite his best efforts not to, Rhodey's pacing sharply, feet restless.

"Uh huh. She give you that, uh--?" Tony taps his own eye.

"What? No." Rhodey shoots a look at him; the expression fairly screams '_please_.' "No. When Jeannie wouldn't leave with me, I was about to put her over my shoulder and take her. A couple of the guys in the place got pushy."

Tony gets up; sits on the edge of his desk and watches Rhodey pace. "I hope you kicked their asses."

"I took a couple down with me," he says, and he finally holds still, perching on the arm of the chair that he had been sitting in. "Still got thrown out on my ass, though." He shakes his head, disgust in every inch of him.

"But you took the folder," Tony says, and it's almost but not quite a question. "You didn't want to burn it." Beat. "I mean, we still can, but."

"Yeah," says Rhodey, and he scrubs a hand across his face. "Well. She took my number. She said it was just to get me to leave before I got a Rhodes killed, but she took it, so I figured..." He shrugs, low, and pats his chest. The folder crinkles quietly.

"Ah." Rhodey doesn't glance up, but he can imagine the slightly-awkward face that Tony's making, the way he's resting his hands on his knees and nodding.

(What he doesn't think to imagine is the concern in Tony Stark's eyes, or the way that he's watching him.)

"You know what we need?" says Tony. He picks up both of their glasses. "A real drink."

"Oh no," says Rhodey, putting up a hand immediately. "No, no. I haven't slept in a day and a half, Tony; I'm _almost_ at the point where I'm seeing sheep jumping a fence out of the corner of my eye. I'm not--"

"Come on," said Tony, clapping a hand down on his shoulder and steering him toward the door, patient and unconcerned with any and all firm denials.

"_No_," says Rhodey, walking along (but only because he's headed that direction -- the exit -- anyway). "I'm going home, and I'm going to bed."

* * *

  
It takes about thirty seconds for Rhodey to put together the pieces, after he wakes up, but in the end, the picture is this: his head is pounding, his mouth tastes like something drank old scotch and then crawled into it to die, he's sitting on a stool with the side of his face pressed against a table, there's a blanket around his shoulders, and his cell phone alarm is going off somewhere not immediately at hand, which means it's six o'clock in the morning.

Slowly, carefully -- and with a Herculean effort -- Rhodey lifts his head. There are a few sheets of clingy paper plastered to his cheek and he peels them off and then forgets to let go.

He's in Tony's workshop-garage. Somehow, this isn't entirely surprising.

What's more surprising is that he passed out over the imaging table, and that the green cast that he was seeing the world through wasn't imagined. The table is still on, projecting a three-dimensional rendering of a nasty-looking suit of armor clearly based off of the Iron Man. Rhodey apparently fell asleep right in the middle of it, distorting its legs. It must have been slowly swiveling over him for hours; he shakes his head and slips a hand under the table and turns it off. The armor disappears.

Turning -- and reaching out for the table in order to maintain his balance, which does not appreciate the fact that he is upright -- Rhodey takes in the scene. There are several glasses scattered across the workshop, with ice still melting in a couple; one is in pieces on the floor, and as he steps over it, glass crunching underfoot, he has a vague memory of it shattering as it hit the floor. The worst of the damage is centered on the couch and the coffee table; he tucks the blanket (the one that he _really_ doesn't remember being put over him) more firmly around his shoulders and investigates. There are several empty bottles -- one whiskey, one wine, and multiple scotch -- spread across the table and the floor; one is tipped on its side and another still has a couple fingers of scotch in it.

_It's a Wonderful Life_ is playing in mute on the TV; it's the big finale, with the whole town turning up at George Bailey's house, all those bright and shining faces in black and white. The scrolling news bar at the bottom is red and trimmed with a holly leaf and berry on one side, and a penguin in a scarf on the other; the Jonas Brothers have apparently released a statement wishing all of their fans the very best on this holiday.

Rhodey presses a hand to his face and closes his eyes. "Merry Christmas, Jim," he says, and someone else croaks, "Hn." Rhodes leans over the back of the couch. Tony is sprawled across the cushions on his side, sleeping like a baby, with one arm flung out over the edge.

Jim shakes his head, just a little, and with the mystery resolved -- remembers the papers that he woke up on, that he's still holding. He lifts them up. It's several sheets of thin drafting paper layered on top of each other, each layer a morass of pencil lines and haphazard printed notes. Rhodey frowns to himself, places the stack of paper on a dry spot on the coffee table, and flattens it out.

It's a suit, shaded black and white. It's the same suit as the rough model that had been glowing over him when he'd woken up. Tony's handwriting is bad enough while sober, so this is practically indecipherable, but the more Rhodey manages to read, the more he wakes up.

The suit has a machine gun on one shoulder and a laser-sighted deployable missile box on the other.

(EIGHT MISSILE CACHE, says the note. SILOS, ONE-SHOT FRANGIBLE WEATHER SEALS. TEAR GAS, ANTI-TANK, ANTI-SHIP, URANIUM CORE ARMOR PIERCING, SUB-NUKE, ETC. Triply underlined, with an arrow pointing to the design at large: RHODEY.)

Rhodey's eyebrows shoot up.

"Oh, you have _got_\--

"This is _crazy_. You're a crazy-person," he tells Tony, who shifts in his sleep and otherwise doesn't react. Rhodey momentarily considers turning the volume all the way up on the movie and taking the sound system off mute, but instead, shaking his head, he pulls the blanket off his own shoulders and spreads it over Tony, making sure to cover his feet.

Jim pulls the armor schematics out from under his arm and pages through as he heads toward the counter, where there'll be coffee.

Absently: "Thing looks _mean_, though."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my fabulous army of betas: Sweeney Agonistes, Meg, Minkhollow, Moofoot, and Neenie.


End file.
